“I know. ’Twas my uncle’s insistence. I didn’t want to offend the mighty Penhallow. But he said it was the only way.”
“Your people are hungry?”
He gave a sigh which seemed to emanate from the depths of his being. “Lady, they are starving.”
“Why? What happened?”
“My father—” Crannog paused as if painfully, swiping his hand across the dank hair plastered to his forehead. “These past three years my father wouldn’t let the farmers tend their fields, he forced them to make war upon the Balfours—the Hearns and the Pòls as well.”
“Who?”
“They’re small clans along the Firth of Lorne. They had insulted him, he thought. His mind was unhinged those last years,” Crannog went on, “he feared and reviled everyone, the whole world seemingly.”
“Including you?” Fiona said, very low.
He nodded again. “I—I hated him! We all did! I was glad when he died. But the damage was done. We’d so little food! I’ve given the farmers back their fields, but how can we survive until the crops grow? Uncle Faing said the Penhallow wouldn’t miss a few cattle, when our need is so great.” Crannog Sutherlainn sighed again. “I told him I’d rather go to the laird directly, and ask for his help, but he said that begging is worse than death. He said I’m a coward, and womanly in my fear.”
“He’s a fool. Your instincts were the right ones.”
He lifted his head. “Think you so, lady?”
“I know so. My husband is a good man and a generous chieftain.” With wonderment, Fiona heard herself saying these words, saying these words with sincerity.
For a moment, hope flared in the dark-ringed eyes of Crannog Sutherlainn, but just as quickly faded. “It’s too late now.”
“It’s not too late. If—when—when my husband’s people come for me, make sure your men lay down their arms.”
“I—I am not sure they will listen to me.”
“You must make them do so! Otherwise there will be bloodshed, and things are certain to go very bad for all of us.”
“But how do I do that, lady?” He looked so young, so anxious, that Fiona couldn’t even find it within her to continue resenting all the misery of this very bad day.
“It is their duty, their sacred duty, laird, and their honor is at stake. And your duty is to do what is right.”
“I’m not ready for this,” he said softly, looking so unhappy that had her wrists not been tied together with a length of horribly scratchy rope she might have put an arm around the poor lad. “I am afraid, lady.”
“It’s all right to be afraid,” she whispered back. “You can be afraid, and still lead your people.”
He was silent.
Fiona hoped that what she’d said was making sense to him, because from across the clearing she had seen Gealag move restlessly, lift his great head as if listening, and it seemed possible, just possible, that the Penhallow men were quietly approaching. Very much did she hope so, but at the same time she now felt more fear than she yet had—if Crannog Sutherlainn did not rise to the occasion, there could indeed be bloodshed. Her stomach tightened into a knot. Not just blood, but death, possibly her own or among the Penhallow men. Or poor young Crannog’s. She didn’t wish anyone to die, even that dreadful, stupid Faing.
She strained to listen, tensed her body to spring up, away, among the trees if she could manage it.
Yes.
There it was.
A faint sound of boots on sodden leaves, a twig giving way, then another.
She opened her mouth to warn Crannog, but all at once, like ghosts materializing, into the clearing strode—why, there was Alasdair. He had come for her. He had come. And he was flanked by half a dozen of his men, muskets drawn. He himself held extended a long silver-plated pistol, looking so fierce that Fiona almost didn’t recognize him, for in him now was nothing but a cold and deadly intent. No laughter, no playfulness, no fun. His eyes came to her, searchingly, then passed around the scene before him. Even as he did so, Fiona’s captors stirred, roused, grabbed guns and knives, jumped up. Crannog leaped to his feet also, but unarmed. “Weapons down,” he ordered his men, but only a few obeyed.
“We must fight, you dolt!” exclaimed Faing, and gladly would Fiona have kicked him, hard (if she weren’t afraid she would startle him into shooting someone). Instead she nudged Crannog with her shoulder, as pointedly as she dared. He didn’t glance down at her, but she saw him pull himself up straighter.
“Weapons down!” he repeated, shakily, but loudly. “As your laird, I command you! ’Tis your—your sacred duty to obey me!”